Don't Fear The Reaper
by TieItOff
Summary: The note should've gone away. Why didn't the wind pick it up? Cradle it and let it drape out late on long nights until it fell into the rivers and broke apart, bleeding ink forgetting the right words? (it's sort of an experimental story...you'll just have to read and see what's happening.)
1. You Who Are On The Road

_Ciao! This is sort of experimental? I'm trying to put poetry into the story without making it look all funny? Thanks for taking the time to read it. :) Onto a totally different topic, I'd love to collab with someone on a fanfic! My email is ohwowthisissuchacoolusername if you want to collaborate on something. I think it could be fun...onto the story! _

**ONE/** D.

T gave a twisting frown, one that turned his lisp into a fever of butterflies. Mutters of 'bullshit' passed monarch's inspection with more stutters. H̶e̶ ̶n̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶m̶a̶g̶i̶n̶e̶d̶ t̶h̶a̶t̶ ̶d̶i̶n̶i̶n̶g̶ w̶i̶t̶h̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶g̶o̶d̶s̶ ̶o̶f̶ ̶t̶i̶m̶e̶ co̶u̶l̶d̶ ̶b̶e̶ ̶s̶o̶ ̶_e̶a̶s̶y̶_.̶

The note should've gone away. Why didn't the wind pick it up? Cradle it and let it drape out late on long nights until it fell into the rivers and broke apart, bleeding ink forgetting the right words?

[It's easy, so fucking _easy_.

To let your gardens

overgrow with weeds,

begging for attention.

But you don't notice a thing

until it hits you

right smack

on the goddamn head.]

Chicago curved around, the road waved to its' Polaroid orange sky; '_hey neighbor!_'. He didn't care about much, just let the wind pull his eyelids back and kept the radio on. The notes in that song mattered more to him now than that fucking stupid and _annoying _piece of paper. He brought his face up to the mirror, checked for willow weepers reflecting over sedans or a rusting, dull van to follow him.

[But it was only his gutless and ghoulish face staring him back; everything was g̶o̶o̶d fine.]

Tore a hole in his brain and maybe he could live without it rupturing, just for a few more months. Once the toll booths ended in Denver, he'd see the grey leaves and hear the snowballs snapping at noses. His sister, wedding blues and Wednesday psalms, would lead him to the hollow well of forgiveness.

He'd own his hometown.

The note stalked and apologized, rather reminiscent of bullshit. He wheezed a sigh and coughed up blood. That wasn't there before.

_make it home before you die. love, c._

That fucking crumpled, sorry ass excuse for let's-be-friends-again was left on his windshield last night. T's eyes glazed over, arch in the brow, and a new challenge to scoff at grinned its' buckteeth. He'd stuffed his head with that chickenscratch handwriting enough. Now he was dying. That asshole _still_ had to haunt him with his hollow voice and fake pain.

[The afterlife of drowning trees

...it didn't seem so bad.

At least he'd abandon his cookie-cutter house.

...and fall to the leaves,

begging to take him back

back to the earth...

all covered in dirt

body left untouched by any

friendship again

...he didn't care for that future.

All he wanted was to lie down on the highway

and pray for a fucking accident.

all that left was all there was...

so you can't be too grateful when those

blurry bluejays swing to a cowbell

keeping the pace for you on salvaged speakers.]

He said he wouldn't smoke, but who keeps promises when butterflies have better offers? He rose, adjusted his seat and prayed dawn wouldn't make his eyes see funny. It only took him a few seconds to light up and then, sweet release, _sweet _release. The house was harder to find; the rose bushes were overgrown and the trees were scorched auburn and mustard. Fall wasn't so bad. He could deal with fall but not who was up in that garage, fixing up whatever shitty vehicle they'd spent two thousand bucks on.

T's car was shaving cream blue with hinges that screeched and jagged wires that poked at the seats' edges. T puffed his chest and put on that fixed grin when he pulled in to the crinkling driveway. A Golden Retriever looking mutt barked once and then howled at him. T stared at the dog, happier now than before. He wasn't doped up; just loaded with Vicodin, is all. He stared at his shaky smile in the visor mirror, then back at the shiny capsule on the dashboard. He tossed the cigarette out his window.

[Pulled it all together, swung it around in a blueish sort of fashion.]

The note-writer, author of whose fucking authority, pulled the cap off a beer bottle with a wrench. His name was Craig and he liked life better when he was a kid. Craig popped the cap in his mouth, chucked the bottle and shoved the wrench in his yellow-striped apron. He grinned at the car pulling in and hushed his dog, Buddha. He bit down on the cap, faithful Buddha meditating in the garage, distrustful gaze at the car meeting her guy. But Craig walked, no, wait, _sauntered _over to the car. As if the years weren't stacking up like sore books to read. As if he wasn't wearing a fucking yellow cooking apron. He leaned in the rather spacious window, arms hanging loosely and raised his eyebrow.

"Didn't you say; _'when we're all old and shit, shoot me if I smoke...'_?_"_

"It used to matter, y'know..." T added offensively. "_Then_."

"What?" T heard the metal cap crunch and grind against Craig's teeth. He winced and reached for his keys, holding out in the ignition. "Not like we weren't dying back then, too."

"It's just gonna happen sooner for me." It was sharp. Sharp because T didn't really care anymore. He'd lost the jitters and gained a strong liking for winter. And it cut through Craig's apron wearing self like butter. But he backed away, cool, distantly shamed on the outside and all monarchs on the inside.

T sat in the car, unfolded the note and smoothed out the wrinkles; wrote in bold, blocky capitalization:

_i'm a fucking ghost. love? - t._


	2. Bulimic Rainbows

_I realize before it didn't say where my email was. In case collab work, y'know. So it's ohwowthisissuchacoolusername at google mail. I don't think it'll let me say my email..._

S.

The car door swung open, T made his way out.

Too slow.

Walked away from his powder blue baby, a 1989 Cadillac Fleetwood and over to the orange 1969 Plymouth Roadrunner, content with Buddha lying next to it. Buddha sniffed airily before giving in and licking T's hand. Craig watched, open mouth, beer cap idle and bored as his '_friend' _peeled back the Roadrunner's windshield wiper and stuffed the crumpled note under it. The Plymouth's wiper smacked, Craig winced. Buddha panted happily and followed T. He smiled down at the dog, just a small crack in his face of happiness and smoothed back her ears. T walked back to his Fleetwood and shook his head as he passed Craig.

"A Roadrunner? Seriously? Eugh..." He flinched. "What made you think _that _was the way to go..." He muttered and opened his Fleetwood's door. Buddha almost jumped in, but Craig pulled back on her golden collar.

"I would've bought a Malibu in yellow but do you _know_ how hideous they are?"

"Yes, Craig." He muttered and opened his door. He stared behind the house. "I used to live here, too." Craig stared dumbly and squinted back at the house. He kicked the dirt around his feet.

"Suppose you did." They stood in silence. Completely still. Buddha was taking her long overdue nap. Periwinkle infused clouds broke up, and tore the sky to a wreck of dripping salty water. It leeched on the surface of Buddha's golden locks and startled T.

"I should...y-yeah, I should probably," He absently searched for his keys before turning to face Craig, red faced and watering eyes. Craig pretended not to notice. "Probably..._go_...do you know where my keys are?"

"Can't we still be friends?" T leaned against his car and shook off the rain. He narrowed his eyes at a small pile of dusty dirt, freckled with rain and shook his head. He frowned.

"...I'm dying..." He said quietly. His eyes glassed over. He rubbed at them and didn't look at Craig. "I'm dying and you're not." He rose his voice and stared his grassy eyes directly into Craig's. It was the most uncomfortable moment Craig had every spent. "We're not okay." He stated simply. "And we _can't_ be friends." Craig shrunk at the tone in his voice. But he buried it all under a cloak of anger; furrowed his brows and let the apron be tossed to the crinkling, fading orange leaves. The wrench went _thunk_. Buddha lifted her head and then sighed loudly before laying back down.

"Fuck." Craig stated simply and bitterly. "You're so goddamn _childish._"

"I'll be de-"

"Oh, _fuck_ that. Fuck you and your stupid pity party." He interrupted. T stood open mouthed, wide eyed. "You're just too fucking _scared _to commit to this." T shook his head.

"No, it's no-" He mumbled.

"It's always been that way. Even after High School...what the _fuck _was up with that goddamn notebook?"

"Fuck you, too! Fuck you and you're fucking, stupid fuck you's! I'm not going to stick around to listen to this shit." T fumbled through his various pockets for his keys. "It was fucking _personal_. I never owed you _shit._" Why'd he have to so many pockets? He clutched a grimace and continued looking.

"Oh, that's fine by me." Craig raised his voice, flipping him off. "Asshole." He muttered as T slid down against his car. He held his head in his hands and shook. Craig stared at him with this look of hurt, anger and compassion that T had never seen. T just shut his eyes and prayed to someone he'd never prayed to before. He prayed that whoever was up there or down there or around him or everywhere or whoever the hell was waiting for him in that fucking riverboat with no emotion to just _take _him away already. He wished it'd just rupture and the pain would leak, dully glide away.

"..fuck off..." He barely said, just garbled. He stared at Craig through the breaks in his fingers. Running eyes and red streaked. "I'm s-serious." He stuttered but growled menacingly. "Get away." Craig sighed and picked up the apron. He clutched it and walked over to T. He slid down against the car, half of the tire poking his backbone and sticking to his shirt. He looked over T and he was glad again that his hair hadn't changed, just messily wet from the rain. Still ripping platinum.

"This is mature." T scoffed, or what attempted to be a scoff happened. Craig shook his head and offered his hand. "I mean it."

"...you've got a _goddamn_ apron..." T mumbled into his sleeve.

"Yeah, but, _tools_. So, it's manly." T started laughing and Craig smiled. "Is that good? Are we...are we _good_?"

T stared, freakishly calm and glass eyed. He looked like a fucking doll. The rain clouded Craig's vision a little.

"_Why don't you miss me?"_

"I just..." T sputtered, staring away, through that busted theater of his memory. He only heard the snippets of all the things they said, all that they did when they just knew each other too well. They came out in uncomfortable and unorganized messes, mixing all the bad ones with the just _brilliant_ ones.

"_If you could just see-_t's _just _like, ah, fuck,

what's it called? Destiny? No, that's stu-_ore _

_like I fee-_so old."

"...I don't think I c-can..."

"_Go ahead and fucking _ditch _me, assh-_

and then he just left my mom. And that's al-

_here's more, than just a graveyard,_

_y'know? Sort of lik-_a junkyard to my soul,

whoa, that sounds too fu-_oetic _

_ justice, motherfucker! If you even _think _about_

_hitting him again, I'll rip your fucking_

_sku-_ulking around, all day...

I just...

...want to be-"

"-friends again." T finished, head screaming memories. He watched Craig's stone face break briefly before the hurt went away and there was nothing to tell him if he was feeling anything at all. The whole thing was eerie. He stood up and pulled a key out of his pocket. He tossed it at T, who fumbled to catch it. Buddha eyed T as if he were an idiot and went back to sleep. Humans.

"I never wanted to be _friends._" Craig replied simply and walked back to his shitty Roadrunner.


End file.
